


The Masterpiece for the Muse

by ShadowThief78



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Art, Darkroom Photography, F/M, Fluff, High School Is Lots Of Work, Loneliness, Painting, Photography, Pining, Reader-Insert, School, finals are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 20:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17453945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowThief78/pseuds/ShadowThief78
Summary: There is something magical about the way the golden late afternoon sunshine pours into the art studio and makes everything beautiful.I haven’t been updating some of my other stories lately, because I have finals coming up, so please accept this as an apology.





	The Masterpiece for the Muse

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Haikyuu!!, its characters, or any part of the plot.

 There is something magical about the way the golden late afternoon sunshine pours into the art studio and makes everything beautiful. It tints everything a perfect honeysuckle color and seems to capture the room, frozen in time, until the shadows of the evening overtake the brilliant light.

There is something majestic and untouchable about the objects in the room at that time, as if they are sacred and silent and wait for one worthy of using them, as if they will condemn anyone unskillful.

There is something inexplicably perfect about that time, when the rest of the students have gone home, when silence and tranquility are your only companions, when you are undisturbed and free of the pesky rules that govern you seven hours a weekday. Not that you’d ever do anything agains the rules, but the thrill of the thought exists, and that is enough.

There is something that will content the most restless, reckless heart, that will soothe the nerves of the most anxious, that will dissolve the worries of the most overworked in that time.

 

.

 

The whispering of a plastic apron.

The squeaking of the faucet.

The sound of water.

The clunking of the paper towel dispenser - deafening in the silence.

The pure, rich colors oozing from their constricting plastic jugs and onto a cheap styrofoam palatte.

The smell of paint.

A damp brush. Waiting, white, blank paper. Colors blossom.

 

Glossy, rich.

Red, the glazed ever-courageous blood. Yellow, shining bright and clear and kind. Blue, soothing and cool. Black, the always, everlastingly present shadows. And white, its brilliant, uncompromised clarity.

There is no sound, only the sighing of the bristles in the pigment and the rasp of them on the paper.

And then the combinations emerge. Peaceful, living green. The orange of a dragon’s fire. Royalty’s purple. Dusky teal of the ocean. Blazing vermillion. Warm amber. Playful chartreuse. Violet of twilight. Sweet yet rich magenta.

Stains my fingers. My hands. My apron. My brush. My water. My paper towels.

The paper is no longer white. 

 

.

 

Metal. Box. Lens. Brightly embroidered strap. Wound around neck.

A cheerful noose.

A small paper box. Black canister. Translucent gray film. Button.

The back panel opens. Nimble fingers load film, wind it, test the camera.  _Click._ Advance lever. 

Adjust the focus. Shutter speed. Apature.

Now, to shoot.

 

Empty hallways. Clocks. Shadows in a closet.

Pens. Buletain boards. Desolate stairwells.

Forlorn plants. A vacant desk. Meaningless papers, words, letters.

Trees. Abandoned classrooms. Dust on a windowsill, clinging to the air.

 

All reduced to black, white, gray.

Abandoned, alone, sterile.

 

.

 

Dark. Darkroom. Film winding. Not a pinprick of light. 

Only dark. Shadows. Silence. Absence. 

 

A monster waves hello.

 

Ther is something solitary in the darkrom, a feeling that you’re alone even if there are others next to you.

 

Water. Running. Concrete floor. Metal drain. The rythmic clunking of the rocker wash. Dim orange squares on the ceiling. Metal tables, cool and flat and square.

The hum, buzzing of the enlarger. Light. On. A rectangle of warmth in a metal frame. 

Focus. Grain focuser. Good. Filter. 2-1/2. Pink light.

Cardboard. Three seconds. Test strip. 

Devloper. Stop bath. Fixer. Out. 

Into the light, the safety, the revealing. Look. Look carefully.

Five seconds exposure. Perfect.

Again. Five by seven. Centered. Perfectly.

A rectangle of warmth. Five seconds. It’s off. Dark, cool now.

 

Clear liquid. Developer. Thirty seconds. Stop bath. One minute. Fixer. Five minutes. Perma-Wash. One minute. Rocker wash. Five minutes.

 

Dryer. Warm air. Whirring to life. Water dripping. Paper out. Curled and dry.

A moment captured in forever.

 

.

 

Sketching. Pencil. Paper. Eraser.

Notebook. Blank. Creamy white.

Gray. Shiny. Dark. Curves. Corners. Light. Dark. Shading. Blurred.

Graphite stains my hand, my fingers, my nails. Stop. Blunt. 

The pencil sharpener eats away at the wood.

 

.

 

Ink. Colors my skin black. 

Bleeds on my paper. 

Stains my soul.

Crisp, against white. Over the graphite, over the pencil, over my mistakes.

Never show your mistakes.

Redraw. Erase. Don’t smear.

Perfection is not unattainable.

 

.

 

When you look at a picture, at a painting, a drawing, a sketch. You only see the finished product.

Never do you see the hours of work they spent refining their skill. 

Not the sleepless nights spent in a feverish haze working their craft.

Nor the sweat, blood, and tears they paid.

Or the pain they went through to produce their work.

Nevertheless, the continue -

Pouring their everything into their work.

Even if “everything”

Is not quite good enough for them.

 

.

 

Smooth metal cylinders.

Poorly fitting plastic lids.

Nozzle. Shake. A metal bal bounces around.

_Sst. Pssh. Fsss. Ps- ps- p- p-_

Out. Another can.

Sharp smells of spray paint.

Background. Shapes. Phantom shadows. Depth.

Subject. Who?

 

.

 

I need a muse.

 

.

 

Silver hair. Kind eyes. Smile.

 

.

 

He’s always smiling.

 

.

 

Even when he’s crying, he’s smiling.

 

.

 

I paint. Gray, brown. I will not rest until I have completed this work. Perfection is not unattainable.

 

.

 

Work. Hard. Pour my heart and soul into my art - like always. Never compromise, never settle for “good enough.” 

Because “good enough” never is.

My fingers stain. I peel paint off them in class. 

The bell rings. Rush to the studio. Paint.

 

.

 

Art Show?

Yes.

It’ll be in the art show?

Yes.

Why?

Because it is a masterpiece.

 

.

 

Silverwara’s Smile. By [Y/N] [L/N].


End file.
